


Riding Shotgun

by argle_fraster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argle_fraster/pseuds/argle_fraster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ain't nothing fair about life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riding Shotgun

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for up to 7x02.

Ain't nothing fair about life. And you've known it since you were six years old and your mom was killed in the burning remains of Sammy's bedroom, but there are still times when it comes up and punches you in the gut anyway. The times where breathing hurts so bad you're convinced you just swallowed a witch's curse.

Sammy's a mess. All that "okay" bullshit, that's just what it is- you've been able to see through it since hell was reflected in his eyes, but you go along with it. What else can you do? He can't be okay and you can't be okay and nothing is okay, but maybe if you just pretend like "okay" is obtainable, you'll be able to get out of bed in the morning.

High school locker room's full of blood and bile and bits of brain matter splattered against the wall. It smells like congealing blood and stomach acid, and it's sad when that no longer churns your stomach. It's easier to take than the pressure from your ribs, trying to suffocate you; you'll take it, because it's familiar. Disgusting and awful and familiar in a way you crave more than anything else.

Fuckin' Leviathans. Kids were in high school.

Ain't nothing fair about life.

It's on the way home that it hits, the onslaught you can't quite stave off. At least you weren't sitting in Bobby's kitchen. Having him give you the look-over as your world falls out from under you... well, thank somebody for small favors. Your baby seems to know what's up. She pulls over on the side of the road almost of her own volition, and it's good, cause you can't get your foot off the brake. Whiplash is the least of your worries now.

There's shit in the trunk that needs to be cleaned. It hasn't been a high priority lately, but now, it seems like something you should've done. There's salt spilling out from one of the 5 lb. bags, but that's not really important. Between the shotgun and the god-damn trenchcoat, maybe the shotgun would be easier to take.

Your girl groans a little with your weight on the end. She'll hold you. She always has. Coat still smells like the detergent Bobby had lying around, something "mountain fresh" or "mountain air". Something he'd probably think was some sort of stupid, cosmic sign.

"God damn son of a bitch," you mumble, and it comes out garbled.

You can't remember the last time you could reach him at that stupid prepaid cell phone number. But you'd always been able to reach him by staring up at the night sky filled with stars. And now, looking up at it and holding the stupid coat in your hands, you've never hated them so much. All those stars stretching across the expanse, and every single one of them is mocking you.

"Are you fucking happy now?" you yell. The soles of your boots hit a rock that isn't level with the ground and it turns your ankle a bit, but the pain is almost comfortable. "Are you fucking happy with this?!"

There's no answer save the wind in the trees, and even that's just wrong. It's worse than Ruby. It's worse than Sammy on demon blood. It's worse than facing down Luficer with the Colt, because it's in his hands and the blood is on his skin.

"Dammit, Cas," you gasp. Breathing hurts. Your lungs are on fire. You aren't sure when you started wheezing. It's like a bullet hitting you between the eyes.

Kneeling on the side of the road on an abandoned highway clutching a rumpled trenchcoat, and ain't nothing fair about life.

Especially when it's gone.


End file.
